


Downtime

by lategoodbye



Category: Anthem (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nameless Freelancer, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 01:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17909327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: Strong alone, stronger together. It's a saying that Owen Corley, despite being a cypher, takes very seriously.





	Downtime

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even finished this game's main story and here I am writing fic. There's no spoilers beyond the fact that Owen and the Freelancer have known each other for years. I've also kept this as close to canon as possible.
> 
> EDIT: I've since finished the main campaign and... yep, still shipping this.

He almost doesn’t make it out of his javelin. Not without Zoe’s help anyway. It’s really no big deal. Nobody in their right mind expects the life of a Freelancer to be without risk. Scrapes and bruises are practically part of the job description. Kill a few Scars here, recover some Shaper relics there, and earn a couple of cool-looking scars on the way. Granted, he could have done without the Outlaw ambush – or the Skorpion nest on his eventful and much-interrupted flight back to Fort Tarsis – but here he is, still in one piece, with what looks (and feels) like only a few pints of blood soaking into the lining of his suit. Not to mention the broken servos, the damaged joints, the slightly scorched coat of paint.

As if the old Ranger javelin isn’t run-down enough as it is. 

But that javelin’s the only thing left from his life before the Heart of Rage, and that has to count for something.

It doesn’t make tumbling out of his suit and right onto his arse any less painful, however.

“Ouch”, he states the obvious, then winces for good measure when the cold flashes of dizziness refuse to subside immediately. One of his knees has definitely seen better days, that much is certain. As for his right shoulder—or is it the arm itself? It’s difficult to pinpoint the many sensations. He’s hurting all over and the experience is a distinctly unpleasant one, to say the least.

“Damn”, Zoe has her back to him. Her eyes are still on the javelin. She gives one of the broken servos a careful tug. “You really put her through her paces this time.”

“You know”, he muses as he tries to push himself off the ground, “It’s actually hard to say—”, he grunts. “Hard to say who did the pacing.”

At that he watches her shoulders stiffen in concerned realisation. But before she can turn around a familiar voice cuts through the relative quiet of the deserted market.

“You’re back!” And in a flash Owen is at his side. He hovers above him for a moment before he feels gloved fingers on his shoulders, breath on his messy, damp hair. “I mean, of course you’re back. It’s not like I wasn’t there for all of it. The fighting, your Ranger’s many, _many_ safety warnings, the surprisingly creative use of expletives…” Owen hesitates for a moment, then his angular face with its expressive eyes and wide mouth swims into focus beside him. There’s worry etched onto his forehead, fear mirrored in the downward twist of his mouth. “And you—“, and it almost comes across as an accusation, “—are very much not alright.”

Owen is his cypher, has been for the past couple of months. They’re working together (when there’s work to be found), sharing their meals (when there’s enough coin left for anything else than a quick bite to eat) and taking turns sleeping in the small, uncomfortable cot in their shared quarters (which works reasonably well since there are about a dozen sleeping arrangements to be found in the bowels of Fort Tarsis that are far more comfortable). During his missions outside the Wall (precious few as there are these days) Owen is far more than a guide, far more than just a voice to lead him in and out of danger. Owen is his constant. Owen hears what he hears, sees what he sees, and—as a cypher—feels what he doesn’t. It’s not that he as a Freelancer is deaf to the Anthem of Creation, but Owen is the one in tune. Without Owen he’d be flying blind.

Which also means that he has witnessed much of his recent incompetence first-hand.

He cringes at the very thought.

“Nothing a drink or eight won’t fix”, he then decides. Not that he can afford a bar tab that impressive.

“You really don’t look so good”, Zoe now chimes in. “I can fix your javelin, but you definitely should get yourself looked at by a doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He wobbles to his feet (or foot, more like, since his right knee absolutely refuses to its part) but although he tries to keep his balance, he’s glad for Owen’s steadying hands. 

“She’s right, you know”, Owen says quietly as they begin to make their way through the empty market in a kind of half-hobble, half-limp.

“I’ll sleep it off”, he says, and he’s determined to fool even himself.

“Oh, really?” Owen pulls him a little bit closer. There’s a smear of fresh blood on the patterned leather of his overtunic. It glistens darkly in the warm light of a few scattered lanterns. He’s tempted to wipe it off with a flick of his thumb, only that would mean letting go of Owen’s arm, which in his current state would only complicate matters further. “Remember when you crashed into that big, angry Skorpion? Because I do. And taking a rough tumble down that cliff right after? Into the patch of stinkhands?”

He groans.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Only I might have to because apparently ‘concussion’ is right at the top of your list of battle souvenirs.”

He steers them both to a stop.

“I’m not concussed.” Because he knows from experience that concussions go with some seriously annoying headaches that he won’t forget anytime soon. “I’m only a little woozy.”

Owen’s fingers dig into his waist protectively.

“Only a little woozy, he says. Oh, alright then. Shall I put on the kettle and we’ll call it a day?”

“Actually, that’d be—”

But Owen cuts him off.

“I was joking.” And he props him up and looks at him in earnest. His round eyes are wide with concern, his mouth is tense and serious. “After what you’ve just been through there’s no way I’ll just drop you off at home to go about my evening.”

He sighs. It takes him a moment to do the math.

“You do know we can’t exactly afford a doctor. Not with the javelin doing its best impression of a heap of scrap metal.”

“We can’t afford the extra downtime, either. Once there’s new contracts on the job board…”

“If there’s new contracts on the job board”, he reminds him. “Think we’ll even get paid for this one?”

Owen considers this.

“Well, you did take out most of the Outlaws.”

“And the Skorpions. The Skorpions count, right?”

“Which leaves us with what – 400, maybe 450 quid?”

“And I only _almost_ lost a limb.” He manages half a shrug, and is instantly reminded of the stabbing pain in his shoulder. “All in a day’s work”, but it comes out all crooked and hoarse, like the mockery of a cheap joke.

“Oh, ha ha! Very funny. Goes well with that cut on your forehead.”

“My what?”

He briefly touches two of his fingertips to where he assumes he could have hit his head and slumps in defeat when they come away sticky and wet. He’s definitely had better days. Then again, he’s had far worse.

“Come on”, Owen nudges. “Let me patch you up, at least. No reason we’ll have to wallow in our misery.”

“We?”

And they slowly wander the many-staired underbelly of Tarsis like a pair of overbeered Arcanists.

“I was there, remember?” He touches him once affectionately where shoulder meets collarbone and the wrinkled folds of his scarf. “I might not have been with you in person—although there’s an idea we should probably keep in mind—but cypher things have a tendency to get all mingled.”

“So you… mingled?” As a Freelancer he’s got the practical implications of cypher support down, of course, but sometimes he still can’t wrap his head around it all. It’s something he’ll probably never fully understand.

“Yep. And it probably saved our hides”, he adds not without resolve.

“Yeah, it definitely did. I can’t even remember the—”

“The terrifyingly large horde of Skorps? Don’t worry. I can.

By then they’ve reached their humble accommodations. “Home” isn’t much more than one bare-walled room with a small window overlooking—surprise!—nothing much in particular. The shelves are cluttered with equipment, the table overflowing with loose parchment. There’s an old cot set in one corner of the room, a rudimentary cooking stove in the other. A thin, wooden door leads into the windowless, perpetually dark bathroom stall. 

An overcrowded strider is nicer to live in than this, but they’d rented it with their own hard-earned money. Only the best for their team of aspiring entrepreneurs.

“I hate this place”, he states matter-of-factly.

“So much so apparently that you’d rather make off with a bunch of angry Skorpions.” Owen gently guides him over to the cot, frowns at the state of him—the unsteady leg, the way his right arm hangs limply by his side, presumably the cut on his forehead—then paws through the contents of the shelves until he’s found the old wooden box that holds their meagre first-aid stash: rubbing alcohol, a few ointments and powders, old bleached strips of cloth that make for sturdy bandages.

“I’m the better roommate by far”, he decides. 

“Owen Corley—Skorps hate him.” 

“And just you wait until I’m out there with you!”

But that’s an idea (frequently talked about as it is) that just doesn’t sit right with him. It’s one thing for him to risk life and limb over a scroll of Arcanist scribbles or faulty sensor equipment. But Owen… Owen deserves better than this. It’s not like the Anthem isn’t dangerous enough already.

“Damn, those Outlaws really put you through the mangle.” Wooden box in his hands he kneels between his legs and searches his face for further signs of discomfort.

“You should see the other guy”, he replies weakly.

“I did”, he pipes up and grins as he uses his teeth to wiggle out of his gloves. “I’d say most of those Outlaws are second-guessing their life choices by now, but you exploded them into a million pieces. Score one for the good guys!”

A few crumbled sheets of parchment rustle to the tiled floor as Owen sets down the box on the small table next to him. He gestures for him to take off his shirt and he obliges without even a hint of hesitation. There’s no room left between them for false modesty. A week of unsanctioned teenaged shenanigans will do that to you – never mind the years they’ve spent apart until circumstance led them to team up indefinitely. Owen busies himself by undoing the clasps of his protective kneepads, then undoes the laces of his boots.

“Need any help with that?”, he then asks, not unamused, as he looks up from his work and catches his partner halfway out of his shirt. The pain in his shoulder and arm makes it difficult to manoeuvre the stretchy fabric over his head and by now he’s helplessly stuck.

“Maybe…”, he admits reluctantly.

“That’s what cyphers are for. We live to serve.” Owen begins to tug at where the shirt clings to the sides of his chest.

“Wow, that’s a little…”, comes his muffled reply from underneath the folds of his shirt.

“Yeah, let’s not overgeneralise”, he adds sheepishly. “I’m always here to help is what I meant to say.”

His fingers feel cold but not unpleasant on his overheated skin. He shivers against the touch, so unexpected is its sudden caress. And when he finally manages to pull free from the constraints of the white fabric his face is flushed, and he finds that Owen is smiling down at him, lips slightly opened, a faint blush high on his cheeks. 

“That’s quite the look on you”, he teases and pats his knee in a moment of shared camaraderie.

After which a distinct greyness descends upon his vision and he finds himself being pulled backwards by gravity until with a forceful exhale his back slides against the wall the cot is set up against.

“Woah there!” Owen’s voice is ringing in his ears and he feels the weight of his fingers being snatched away. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay”, he lets himself answer as if from far away, determined not to let the crushing waves of pain get the better of him. “You didn’t mean to.”

The gentle weight of Owen’s fingertips returns to carefully probe the skin around his swollen knee.

“But I knew”, the words tumble out as he works. “I saw you fall. I felt—”

“You mingled. I know”, he says calmly, earnestly, as exhaustion settles on him like a heavy blanket.

“You better lie down”, Owen decides after a moment of contemplation. “I don’t think the knee’s badly damaged. A bit of ice and some rest will probably do the trick.”

“See, I told you so.” He smiles, self-satisfied despite the pain and overwhelming fatigue. He half-buries his face in the crook of one elbow and doesn’t resist when Owen’s hands guide him to lie back until his feet dangle over the cot’s edge. He’s stronger than he looks. And this stupid bed? It’s too small even for one of them to sleep on comfortably (which is a pity, all things considered, and has to change as soon as possible).

“No promises.” But Owen’s reassuring touch is ghosting up and down one of his arms now and he’s fighting the urge to answer the gesture in kind. “If the swelling hasn’t gone down some by tomorrow I’ll drag you to the doctor myself. So what if we end up grounded for a week with scraps of stale leftovers for food? Live to fly another day, right? Strong alone, stronger together – isn’t that what they say?”

“I love you too, Owen”, he mumbles without much thinking about it, and later he finds that he doesn’t regret the choice of words at all.


End file.
